Pages

Friday, 31 October 2014

Matthew
Williston is a man of many skills, actor, director, VJ, DJ, experimental
projectionist& sound technician, co-founder of L’Art Ici SVP.(a public art
company in Moncton) Also co-founder of **Gay Poutine** (an alternative LGBTQ
night in Moncton) He has spent many
years developing those skills while living in Montreal for the better of 13
years as well as western Canada. He currently resides in Moncton, NB where he
is presently building the cabin of his dreams in the country. He works under
the pseudonym of M K W. He’s gregarious, witty, generous and an all-round nice
guy.

(B&W photo by Robert T Wilson Thank you Robert)

4Q:
Tell us how you became involved in the music business as a DJ, VJ and
projectionist.

MW: I’ve
always been drawn to and appreciated music .The reason I got my first job was
because my folks would not by me a boom box. They may have been worried that
the sounds of rock’n’roll would corrupt their little boy…They were right.

I started mixing records at the age of 14/15 .We were
putting on “all night dance parties” in Moncton by the time I was 16.
Electronic music was deep inside me at this point, as was the love of movement
and dance.

Moving to Montreal was where my schooling really started, I
was fortunate enough to meet and have the pleasure of working with 4 guys who
had big dreams for projections in the world. 2 of these guys are still running
an internationally renowned company called Moment Factory. The 2 others also have
an innovative businesses in the Multi media world as well.(NOMAD
NATION,BAILLET,CARDELL & FILS)

Having already been carrying a video camera in my backpack
for a few years before this, I was a sponge and engaged in what could be done
with a camera and some video editing software. Hired on mostly as a VJ (video
Jockey) I was mixing images with world class talent in internationally renowned
clubs and venues.

I continue to push my visual
installation experiments and my DJ style in the Atlantic Canada.The east coast festival circuit in the summer
is a blast, with such a great community of people coming out to support, engage
and experience in a creative coming together of minds.

4Q:
As a co-founder of the art movement in the city, tell us about the development
and goals of L’Art Ici.

MW:
My partner Lisa J Griffin and I started this initiative at the end of last
year. We have since put up two murals on St. George St. Curated 12 bins to be
painted downtown with DMCI(downtown Centreville Moncton Inc) We were involved
with Gallery days with the City of Moncton in which we builta structure and had in painted live in front
of city hall.

We have some really exciting things lined up for next spring
and summer. Our main goal is to bring out color and character in our great hub
city. We want to be inspired and to inspire creation and vibrancy in our daily
lives. Bringing a community together is also important to us.

You can keep up with us at our facebook page for now as our
website is under onstruction.www.facebook.com/l’articisvp.

4Q:
Please share a childhood anecdote or memory.

MW: I
was in Florida with my parents, probably around 6 years old. I like most kids,
loved animals. Also like most kids I wanted to pet them and cuddle them. Even
if it was a pelican. Well to my surprise pelicans weren’t friendly. This monstrous
beast tried to swallow me whole. There’s not much in life that I’m scared of,
but pelicans still freak me out a bit.

4Q:
What’s Gay Poutine all about?

MW:
It came from a lack. A lack of contemporary gay and dance culture, A lack of
visibility of the LGBTQ community in Moncton. My partner in Poutine, Danderson,
and I had been talking about this lack and our interest in filling that void.
When he was travelling in Europe last year he hit me up … “GAY POUTINE” he
said. I said, “I love it”. Upon his arrival we started putting the forum for
these events together. Local café/bar owner Marky was supportive in our endeavors
and offered us to do our first **Gay Poutine** at LAUNDRO on St. George St. We
have had Poutine served at all our events, usually served up by Harry and Taco
from Harry’s Pizza, another strong Allie in the LGBTQ community.

The community has
been very supportive, both the straight and LGBTQ, We were invited to join in
the gay pride parade this year, which I feel still has a big place in creating
acceptance and assimilation in Moncton NB.

Every event is mixed with gay, lesbian, straight,
trans-gender, and others…We are inviting and accepting to all. We hope that
this movement will spark the imagination and drive of other freedom fighters in
the city. We hope to see more LGBTQ events pop up in our ever growing cultural
landscape.

Thanks for
sharing your thoughts on the 4Q Interview Matt. If any readers want to connect with this artist
or are looking for someone to spin the right
tunes at any event, you can reach Matt at matt.k.williston@gmail.com

Next week be sure to drop by and meet Chris Eboch of New Mexico. She writes Children's Stories, Historical Fiction and Mystery/Thrillers. She will be offering advice on writing vivid scenes, adapted from her book Advanced Plotting.

Friday, 24 October 2014

After a major confrontation with the villainous men he is pursuing in Bangladesh, the police are now involved. Drake Alexander must explain his actions to the Officer-in-Charge, Inspector Bitan Chowdhury.

Drake leans against the wall of Inspector Chowdhury’s
office and crosses his arms. He had been sitting in the same chair Mireille had
occupied the day before, telling Chowdhury of the events of the last three
years. He had been speaking for over an hour when he had gotten up to stretch
half way through, his muscles taut from the day’s action and frustration. He
had paced about the office as he related the rest of his story before leaning
back against the wall.

The Inspector had interrupted occasionally for
clarification on some points of Drake’s narrative but mostly sat unmoving,
wrapped up in the details.Drake began
by telling Chowdhury of finding Amber and Sakeema, who they were, the condition
their bodies were found in. In those very first sentences, Bitan learnt a great
deal about the stranger in his office. When Drake had been itemizing the girls’
terrible wounds, he had choked up. Chowdhury, who had been listening while
writing his own notes, had looked up at Drake when he had gone quiet. The man
was looking him directly in the eyes, not downcast, not covert, and not ashamed.
Chowdhury could tell the effort it was taking Drake not to blink. The inspector
stared back only for a second, dropping his gaze out of respect. He continued
to write when Drake speaks again, stops writing and drops his pencil. The notes
can wait, he believes, and listens intently.

“So you see, Inspector, every trail we follow has
always led us back to Central America, but it goes cold when you set foot on
the isthmus. He could be in the Honduras, Belize, Panama, Guatemala, we don’t
know. All we know is that he’s involved in something here in Dhaka. Men, we can
safely assume work for him, are chasing one of the slain girls cousin’s, who by
the freakiest chance heard someone speak Rizzato’s name.”

“Why didn’t you contact someone in our departments
when you arrived”? He asks, his English precise, his accent euphonic.

“Well, as I told you earlier, law enforcement agencies
have not been effective in finding Rizzato. It has always been an international
screw-up, with arguments over jurisdiction. The girls were in Venezuela, so
agents there are involved. The girls were foreigners, one American, one Saudi
Arabian living in the U.S.A. on a student visa, so those countries are
involved. Bartolommeo Rizzato is a wanted man in several countries, so when his
name popped up, they all got involved. Now your people will be involved. Do I
need to go on, Inspector? Can’t you see the bureaucratic mess? We had
originally planned to do this on our own. But Rae is right, it’s important for
us to stay on the right side of the law. I think we need to work together. I
have good people with me and we can find him. Let us bring him in.”

Chowdhury gives this idea some thought. He muses that
Alexander is probably correct for he knows how red tape can slow down the
process when multiple forces are involved. Goodness knows there are too few
detectives now for all the investigations to be done.

The Inspector has seen a lot over the years,
insensitivity, depravation, cruelty, lies, amongst many things. But his sense
of honesty, of a man’s personal honour has not curdled over the years. He looks
up at Drake, who is leaning against the wall. His arms are crossed but his chin
rests heavily on his chest, eyes closed, features sedate. Chowdhury wonders if
it is fatigue or the peace that comes from a complete confession, a sharing of
your burden that makes the man so calm.

He studies Alexander for a moment. The man reminds him
of a steed, a quarter-horse in its prime.Perhaps it would be wise to allow this man his “private
investigation.”Chowdhury believes this
man, believes in the depth of his furor and believes in Rae. He sifts through
the documentation he’s received on Drake. Honourable discharge, commendations,
mostly for his leadership abilities and acts of bravery. Absolutely no criminal
record, an abstract so clean it defies possibility. His only black mark was the
string of speeding tickets he has accumulated over the last ten years. The man
must always be in a hurry.

Chowdhury interrupts Drake’s reverie.

“Mr. Alexander, sit for a moment.”

Drake hesitates; he wants to get this interview over
with, to keep searching for Rizzato, not to get comfortable.

“Please, what I want to tell you won’t take long. It
will better explain why I feel we should cooperate.” He unsteeples his hands
and waves Drake to a more comfortable chair in the corner, to the right of his
desk.

Drake is encouraged by the word cooperate and sits in
the chair, which is obviously the Inspector’s thinking spot: pipes, tobacco,
ashtray, reading glasses, a magnifying glass, all are within easy reach. Like
the rest of the office, everything is neatly arranged and spotless.

Chowdhury leans back in his chair; the rocker strains
from lack of lubricant and gave a shrill dissent. He points to a large photo
hanging over the wooden filing cabinets that claim most of the wall to Drake’s
right.Drake has to lean forward to see
it clearer. There are four men in yellow and green cricket uniforms, obviously
celebrating some victory. The man on the far left – one arm around his fellow
player, the other arm lifting a magnum of champagne, bubbles fizzing over the
neck – is Chowdhury. The other three are similarly gleeful, which is evident in
their ear-to-ear smiles and victorious hand gestures.

“The man on my immediate left is Taj Al-Khuri, who was
Rae’s husband. We were great game mates and quite possibly the closest I’ve
ever came to having what you might consider a “best friend.” Taj was a man I
greatly admired but could never emulate. He wasn’t much for rules, as I suspect
you aren’t either. But he was always a man of the law; he walked the line many
times but never, not even once, stepped over. He couldn’t be bought, couldn’t
be coerced and couldn’t be stopped once his mind was made up. Had he been a...
toady I think the British call it, he would have certainly outranked even me,
at an earlier age, he was really quite clever and a damn good detective.”

The Inspector twists in his chair, his imagination
sending his words off on a tangent, “I still can’t get over the senseless way
he died, how some businessman got the best of him, Taj was so much smarter than
that...” He only ponders the idea for a few seconds, “Alas, he is dead and we
will never know those last moments of his fruitful life, but we do know he
married a sensational woman who is just like him. They were a wonderful team,
always in love, always together. Poor, poor Mireille. It took her a long time to
get over the ordeal.”

He pushes himself away from the desk, rolling on
whispering wheels, and rises from his creaking chair. He grabs the chair back
and rocks it each way twice, the spring creaking a bit. “I must oil that soon,”
he reminds himself. He reaches for Drake’s sidearm, which is resting on the
corner of his desk. He picks it up along with the half empty cartridge and
gives it back to Drake.

“Now, what I want to say to you, Mr. Alexander is
this: Taj and I had a bond, a bond of trust, both officially and personally. I
doubt very much that I shall ever attain a comrade such as him again; if I do
it will most likely be his widow. But I am not an easy man to get close to.
However, I’m not made of stone either. It is because of these two that I will entrust
you to do your ‘private investigating.’ I had a chat with Rae earlier today, as
you know. I am also acquainted with Uday Saad, albeit not well enough to have
been aware of his daughter’s plight. The people you are associated with, I hold
in high regard. Therefore, you are free to carry on”.

Drake is relieved to be able to leave; he wants to get
to the hospital to check on Dakin.

“Thank you Inspector and I...”

“But,” said the Inspector, interrupting Drake. He
walks over to the cabinets the picture hangs above and waves Drake over. When
Drake joins him, he points to the man on the far right of the picture and says,
“Tomorrow this man will join you, and he will be like flypaper. Are you familiar
with flypaper, Mr. Alexander? Extremely sticky stuff, flypaper.”

Chowdhury grins at his metaphor and doesn’t wait for
an answer.

“His name is Gurupada Bannerji, some people call him
Pada. I am assigning this case to him. He or Rae will liaise with me, keeping
me informed as to your progress. Is that clear?”

The scrunched eyebrows and heavy frown on Chowdhury’s
face indicate his seriousness; this is not a negotiable issue. Drake
nevertheless makes an attempt to dissuade the inspector, “I don’t think we need
a babysitter, Inspector. Rae knows her way around. My men and I are familiar
with each other and I’m not comfortable with adding an unknown to our efforts.
You’ve seen what we are up against. I’m not sure a desk jockey is a good idea.”

Chowdhury grunts
and goes back to his desk, “I can assure you, Mr. Alexander that Mr. Bannerji
is no desk jockey. He is one of the top three shooters on the police force,
both with a pistol and a sniper rifle. He is a practitioner of Haidong Gumdo.
He is an all-rounder in cricket, being an exceptional batsman and bowler. He
can be brutal if necessary. And he is single, which means he will be able to
assist you twenty-four hours a day.I
can guarantee that if push comes to shove, Mr. Alexander, Bannerji will be a
valuable asset. I also need to remind you that you are short one man at
present, with your comrade – who would be in some trouble for carrying side
arms without a permit were it not for Rae and me – is in hospital.”

Chowdhury sits in his corner chair and reaches for his
pipe. He speaks as he fills it and tamps the tobacco, “I’m going to insist on
this Drake, or your investigation will come to a quick end. I also expect that
you will stick to the investigating and leave the arresting to us.Of course, I anticipate you will need to
defend yourself in certain situations, but I don’t wish for you to provoke
anyone. Don’t endanger my people or yours.”

He hesitates before lighting the pipe, then looks up
at Drake, who is still standing beside the filing cabinets.

“I don’t think there is anything else to discuss, Mr.
Alexander. I have your cell number and Bannerji will be in touch with you in
the morning. May I tell him you are an early riser?”

Drake realizes Chowdhury has the advantage and that
submitting to his proposal will make searching for Rizzato much easier.

“Fine Inspector, I agree to your conditions and look
forward to meeting Mr. Bannerji. I’m available anytime he or you need me.
Thanks for your cooperation. If you could arrange for someone to drive me to
the hospital, I would appreciate it.”

“Go wait at the entrance and one of my men will escort
you. Oh, and I trust you will see to the rental that was destroyed, as well as
the other vehicles. I’m certain the rental company won’t be pleased and I’d
rather they didn’t have to bother us over this matter.”.

He places a match to the packed bowl of his pipe,
sucking in the flame. Thin plumes of aromatic smoke move gently about the room.
Drake recognizes Borkum Riff, the same brand his father had smoked, the one
with the whiskey flavour.A calm comes
over him, a reassurance of something familiar.

“I take full responsibility for the vehicles. I’ll
personally see that the rental people are compensated. Is there anything else
Inspector? If not, I’ll bid you a good evening.”

Their eyes lock for a moment. There is mutual respect
there.

“Good night then, Mr. Alexander. Go cautiously.”

Dark Side of a Promise is a story you don't want to miss. Available at amazon.com or .ca. Ebook version or hard copy. Also available from this website.

Saturday, 18 October 2014

Elizabeth is a professional actress and director. Her first performance was at the age of three and she has worked in the theatre for many years, performing everything from Shakespeare to pantomime, turning to directing some years ago.

Having taught drama for some 15 years at Bedales School in Hampshire, Elizabeth still runs the theatre company that she founded in 2001, ‘The Misrule Theatre Company’. In addition to writing all the original material for Misrule she has also been writing novels for both children and adults for the last 20 years. Elizabeth is currently working on a series of books for older children called ‘The Barbary Trilogy’, the first one, ‘The Hollow Crown’, to appear on this website soon.Married to Michael, who works in the City, she has four children, two sons and two daughters, with 6 grandchildren between them. She and Michael live in London and Hampshire.You can read more about Elizabeth at www.housdenpublishing.co.uk.

CREATING CHARACTERS

I've often wondered how on earth it is so many
deeply talented writers manage to write such glorious stuff if they hadn't
first been trained for the stage.But
few have been.I admire them hugely.

Why, you ask?

Well now, theatre - the greatest and most clever
confidence trick of all time.Everything
is illusion - the sets are not Aladdin's cave or a castle in Denmark, neither
are they a bar in New York or a blasted heath, they are drawings, digital
images, bits of painted cloth, lumps of polystyrene decorated to deceive.The people who speak to you from those sets
are not really old tramps or murderous kings or angry young displaced princes
hell bent on revenge, they are actors pretending to be them.Everyone who works in theatre knows it, the
audience knows it, the people who own the theatres know it, and yet people
flock in in droves, paying out good money to sit and watch things unreal
performed by real people who are not what they seem and the ones they like best
are those that con them better than others.That's what a great actor is, simply a first class con artist.

How do we achieve this?There are many tricks and dodges, ways to
walk and talk and sit and die.There are
costumes and props, make-up and lights.To help us, too there are great theatre practitioners all round the
globe who have given their lives over to helping professional con artists trick
people ever more convincingly.One of
the greatest, Konstantin Stanislavski said, "I go to the theatre to see
the actors perform the subtext.I can
read the text at home."Thus it is,
as actors we must get into the character, see behind what he says that makes
him the real person, observe what others in the play say to him or about him
and work out what he is like.Then we
play it, knowing what he REALLY is.Simple.Well, no not really.It is a hugely time consuming, totally
absorbing, frustrating, fascinating journey.The rehearsal process which we all go through is enlightening,
infuriating, exhausting and we love it.Through it we learn about ourselves as well as those we play.We never stop learning.We learn about our fellow actors and we are privileged
to be allowed to get to know other humans in such an intimate and personal
way.We are the most fortunate of
people.

So, how does this relate to my admiration of
writers who have not been put through this rigorous process?I have acted off and on, all my life, and
still do so, interspersed with my roles as wife and mother and all that goes
with that.I spent my required years at
drama school and loved them, hated them, cried, laughed and screamed at my
inadequacies.As I got older and the
parts became fewer and further between, which is normal for most women, I started
to write, firstly plays, the format of which was so familiar to me and then,
later, gradually, slowly I began to write novels.Now I can't stop.

To begin with, I thought how lucky I was that
now I could create my own characters.I
was not confined to those of the playwright but could branch out on my
own.But suddenly I knew I needed a back
story, not just the one behind the whole novel, but each character had to have
one.Why did he or she talk the way they
do? What makes them angry, sad, happy, laugh? Why are they jealous?Of whom?Why are they not jealous if they should be?The task was huge but had to be undertaken or
these imaginary people would not be real.I wouldn't have conned anyone, not even myself.I suddenly knew my job, as I had all my life
before as an actor.It was a wonderful
and terrifying moment.And if a writer
hadn't been trained and worked as a professional actor, as I have, God knows
how they'd start.I am in awe.

I am often asked what I think of my characters -
no, more specifically I am asked always about the two or sometimes three main
characters in the book, generally the "lead" man and girl and the
villain!What makes him villainous?A fellow writer acquaintance of mine said
once, if someone really upset him badly, he would put him in a novel and kill him
very slowly and painfully.I know
exactly what he means!It is rare for me
to kill someone in a novel, but I might slip in the odd characteristic here and
there of people who have irritated or infuriated me!Do I like the male lead? You bet I do!Given the opportunity to create someone
completely wonderful, why wouldn't you?!The lead male in my latest novel, I have published four so far and this
new one is the fifth, is to die for.He
makes me go weak at the knees.But this
book is also a first - my first historical novel.It is called The Gentlemen Go By.

I have loved the disciplines that history demand
and impose upon you.I have had to
remember how long it took for news to be taken from one part of the land to
another.I have had think about fashion
in clothes, fashion in morals, food, drink, transport as well as what was
actually happening in the world then, both politically and socially and also
physically - famous storms, erupting volcanos, tidal waves.Were there any?What impact would they have on the lives of
those imaginary people who inhabit the pages?Imagination hemmed in by necessary disciplines is powerfully
enlivening.This new story of mine is set
in the years 1788/9 - to save anyone looking that up, 1789 was the date of the
French Revolution.It was the time of
Les Mis.But the setting was a very
different place.

This tale is derived from a real character and
in a place that I know well and that in many ways has changed less than in
other parts of the British Isles.Right
at the bottom of Great Britain just a few miles south of the city of
Southampton, in the middle of the northern stretches of the English Channel is
a tiny, diamond-shaped island.It is
called the Isle of Wight.Here it was I
grew up.For some reason, and I'm not
sure why, British people measure the size of bits of the world in relation to
the Isle of Wight.Example:How big is Barbados? About the same size as
the Isle of Wight.Example :How many people are there in China? Well, if
you stood the whole population of China next to one another without a space
between them, you would fit them all onto the Isle of Wight.Example:How big is London?Oh, huge -
four times the size of the Isle of Wight.The examples are endless.The
real man on whom this tale is based was nothing like the man in my story - at
least I doubt it.But he was a smuggler.

This real, eighteenth century fellow, then, was
an Islander and a man of the people.He
was a crook, really, and involved much of the populace where he lived on the
Island (the islanders always call the Isle of Wight, 'The Island', by the way -
it is the only Island they care about, you see).They helped him smuggle, hide the contraband,
distribute it and share in the profits.But it is there the similarity ends, however.The hero of my story was a French aristocrat,
dashing, handsome, sexually magnetic, and the girl he falls in love with
utterly worthy of him and matches his courage, imagination, commitment and sense
of humour in every way.I know nothing
of that aspect of the real man, but that doesn't matter for this is my story,
they are my hero and heroine and I can do with them what I will, given the
restraints of human nature and physique and the era in which they lived.As I do when researching a part, getting to
grips with the clues in the text, every time I write a book, I use those same
rules and apply them to my imagined people.

I spend long hours just thinking about them,
inventing scenes that never appear in the book and are not meant to be used
either, but simply so I get to know them better, to make them real. I have to
know what they look like, how they dress, what they eat and drink, what makes
them laugh and cry, what turns them on.Why do they like this person or that, how they have been hurt, what they
were like as children, or if they are children, what they hide from adults, and
how they say it.I have done much work
with young people and I have been lucky enough to be the confidante of many so
I know how they talk to one another when adults are not there, how they think,
what makes them laugh or angry and so positive in the face of desperate
uncertainty and questioning in the midst of cast iron reality.

I suppose in the end, people will ask, so then,
what about the character you know most, namely myself?Am I in these books?In many ways yes, how could I not be.Every actor brings his or her own experiences
of life and uses them within the restraints put upon them by the character he
or she plays.So, I suppose it is with me,
but none of the girls in my novels is actually me and neither are they any of
my friends although some believe, quite wrongly they are.For example, if I write about a character who
has a phobia of something, say, then she would probably be afraid of heights or
spiders.I know what it is like to be
afraid of heights and spiders because I am.I can write about it with conviction.I couldn't really write about a phobia of say, balloons or clowns or
snakes (and I love snakes, actually) because I don't really understand
those.But these women are not myself. I
only draw upon one or two things I feel or hate or enjoy to make them real to
my audience.I lend bits of myself to my
creations, that is all.

Will you like the Marquis Jacques St Aubin if
you read the Gentlemen Go By?I would
like to think so.Not just because I
like him and we like our friends to like other friends but because he appeals
to you - he is real and you can visualise him, his crooked smile, his eyes that
hold too much knowledge, maybe knowledge he shouldn't have, the frisson of
danger about him, the way he raises a glass of brandy to his lips and smiles at
you just before he drinks it.

Oh yes, he is to,die for...

And he's mine.

Please drop by The Scribbler next week for an excerpt from my novel, Dark Side of a Promise. Drake Alexander has tracked his man to Bangladesh. After his first encounter with the villainous men that work for him, the police are now involved. Drake explains his actions to the Officer in Charge, Inspector Bitan Chowdhury

Friday, 10 October 2014

This story received Honorable Mention in the Kyle Douglas Memorial Short Story contest sponsored by New Brunswick Writers Federation. Ship Breaking is done mainly by hand and is gruesome hard work. It was first published in SHORTS Vol.1 which is available at amazon.ca I hope you enjoy my story.

The Ship Breakers.

The Neptune Giant is a VLCC, a
very large crude carrier.
When it was completed in 1979, it ranked among the largest oil tankers in the
world. From bow to stern, 75 Cadillacs could park bumper to bumper. The crews
used bicycles to travel the elongated deck. With a beam of nearly two hundred feet,
five bungalows could be placed lengthwise side by side across the deck; her
keel is six stories underwater. The raw steel is covered with over fifteen
hundred gallons of paint. She’d been given a lifespan of thirty years; instead,
she had sailed every ocean of the world, berthed at every continent, rode many
storm’s fierce waves and trolled the endless seas for thirty-five years. Today
is her final voyage.

Her last port of call,
two weeks ago, was Saint John, New Brunswick, with two million barrels of
Venezuelan crude. Now, the tanker cruises the Bay of Bengal at fourteen knots.
At that speed she requires five miles to come to a dead stop. The ship breaking yards of Chittagong, Bangladesh,
are only four miles away. The captain brings the ship to starboard, aiming the
aging tanker directly at the muddy beach. The tide is high, which is necessary
to allow the gargantuan machine to ground itself like an aged sea lion, as near
to the shore as possible, where it will die.

The engine that powers
the ship is eighty-nine feet long and forty-four feet wide with twelve massive
cylinders – one of the largest engines in the world. It weighs two thousand
metric tons costing more than the rest of the transport. Its thirst for fuel
demands over fifteen hundred gallons of crude every hour. Its last chore will
be to power the vessel onto the tidal mud banks, where humans who are dwarfed
by its immensity will eventually take it apart, by hand, piece by piece. The
work is extremely dangerous with an exceptionally high mortality rate and yet
there is no shortage of men.

Of the approximately
45,000 ocean-going vessels in the world, about seven hundred per year are taken
out of service for dismantling. Many go to Alang, India, the world’s largest
shipbreaking yard. Or to Gadani, Pakistan, the third largest after Chittagong.
Where the ships go, the jobs go. As difficult as the work may be, ship breaking
is part of the momentum powering the economy of a young Bangladesh. The owners
of this particular ship-breaking yard paid three million dollars for the Neptune Giant.

With torches,
sledgehammers, steel wedges, brute force and painstaking drudgery, it will take
six months to dismantle; one man will die and two men will be injured by a thousand
pound slab of steel cut from the behemoth’s hide. It will net the owner millions
more than he paid when he sells the scrap metal and he will provide no
compensation for men that can’t work. They toil fourteen hours a day, with two
half hour breaks and an hour for lunch, six and a half days a week. The men
will eat their supper when their work shift ends. At least one quarter are
illiterate; one quarter are children. The average wage is $1.25 per day.

*

Azhar Uddin is gently
woken by his father. It’s 4:30 a.m.

“Come my little man,
you must join your brother at the table. You must leave for work soon. Come
now.”

Hafiz Uddin turns from
his son, supporting himself with his only arm grasped upon a homemade crutch;
the other arm is buried beneath the muddy beaches where he once toiled, severed
by falling steel at the same crippling yards where he will soon send his two
sons. He wobbles even with his lopsided support; the left knee and lower leg,
the same side as the missing arm, were wrecked in the accident also. Unable to find
meaningful work with only a single hand, one strong leg and a defeated spirit,
he remains dependent upon his male children: Nur is fourteen; Azhar will be thirteen
next week. Because they are exceptional workers, they earn two hundred and
sixty takas a day, just over three
dollars.

Rising slowly, he sits
up on the side of the bed, Azhar rubs his shoulder. The dull ache in his muscle
reminds him of the steel pipes he helped carry all day. Long straight bangs of
the fiercest black hang over his narrow forehead. His brown boyish skin is
smooth and untroubled, not yet marked by the lines of struggle. A slight dimple
on the end of his nose balances the squareness of his jaw. The man’s work he
does has not taken the childish shine from his eyes. Blinking the sleepy fog
from his brow he rises to find his work clothes neatly folded at the foot of
his bed. His father washed and hung them to dry before he retired for the
night, as he would’ve done for Azhar’s older brother, Nur, also. There are no
women in the house.

Azhar slips on his red
and blue striped shirt, the collar and cuffs worn thin bearing unravelled
threads. Wrapping a green and yellow lungi
around his slim hips, he ties a double pretzel knot to keep it secure. He often
wishes for trousers to protect his legs, but they would be too hot for work,
and he knows there is no money for such luxuries. Every spare taka is sent to his mother, Naju, in
Dhaka. He ponders a moment, thinking of her and his sisters. Rayhana is eleven
and works with his mother; and Tasleema is six. He hasn’t seen them for over
four months. It is for Tasleema that they all work and save whatever is
possible so that she can go to school. As he thinks of her glowing eyes and the
tiny face he remembers her promise,

“When we are together
again, Azhar, I will teach you to read.”

The thought causes him
to bend down to retrieve the tattered comic book from under his bed. In the dim
light of the bare bulb from the kitchen, he scans the torn cover. The masked
man with the flowing cape, he knows, is called Batman. One of his first jobs when he was only ten was to retrieve
any usable items from the grounded ships that could be sold to the recyclers:
rolls of unused toilet paper, cleaning supplies, pots and pans, furniture,
bedding, tools, discarded books, coastal maps, light bulbs, cans of paint,
rope, wire. The comic book had been in a waste basket; it was torn and thick
with many readings. Azhar had seen other comics before but he wondered where
this one came from and how far it had travelled when he found it. His boss
Mojnu told him to keep it, otherwise it was being tossed out. He was always
impressed by the colored pages, the photos of cars, tall buildings, fancy
clothes, fight scenes, smiles and scowls – and he longs to know what the squiggly
words mean. More than anything, he wants to read.

Tossing the book under
the bed once more, he tugs the frugal sheets into place neatly, as his father
expects, before joining his brother at the table. Their home is corrugated
metal divided into two rooms with few possessions, its shape a replica of the
many shanties lining the dirt street where he lives. Theirs is different
because their father keeps it clean. The walls are painted a bright blue inside
and out; their roof doesn’t leak when it rains.

The smell of oatmeal
greets him as it drifts from the boiling pot his father is bent over, stirring,
on the Bondhu Chula, a cook stove. Oatmeal for breakfast is not common in their
home or their neighbours for that matter. Most breakfasts are rice, sometimes
with red or green chillies. Or paratha, a pan fried unleavened flat bread.
Yesterday Old Angus Macdonald, the burly Scotsman that visits them sometimes,
dropped off a bag of rolled oats. They have no idea where he lives or where he
comes from. They only know him from the story their father has told them.

The man was almost
seventy when he commanded the Atlantic Pride, one of Canada’s largest ferries, to
the yards in Chittagong when it was retired four years ago. He stepped onto
shore after he grounded the ship and he never left. When the torches cut a
section of aged steel from the nose of that very ship, a huge chunk crashed to
the ground beside Hafiz, pinning his arm to the sand and breaking his leg. Had
the piece fallen several inches more to the left, Hafiz would`ve died. Maybe
that was why the elderly man stopped by once in a while with his bag of oats or
some other staples and a few taka notes. He never stayed long, spoke very
little Bengali. Always laughing, always a mystery.

Nur sits in front of a
dish of flatbread, resting on a makeshift table which is a piece of discarded
plywood his father has sanded, painted and polished. It’s the same teal that
decorates the home, the same teal Hafiz got for free. Nur looks up with his
usual wide grin,

“Good morning little
brother. Will you be having paratha or paratha for your meals today?”

Hafiz has his back to
his boys, cooking their breakfast. He doesn’t turn around when he scolds his
oldest son. “Be thankful you have food, Nur. There are neighbours who may not
have any today, or tomorrow. Don’t make fun. And Azhar, wash up, do your
morning duties, and hurry. This is almost done.”

Both boys answer in
unison, “Yes, Baba.”

The man that owns the
property their home sits on is the same individual who owns the breaking yard
the boys work at. Not totally without empathy, he provides running water and
outhouses. Perhaps it is benevolence that has him supply these accommodations;
it’s also his desire that his employees should be healthy so they don’t miss
work. Hence the covered latrines and cold, life-giving Adams’ ale. Azhar goes
to the sideboard, where water heated by his father steams from an old porcelain
basin that is storied with nicks and scratches. He washes the sleep from his
face, tames the cowlicks on his head, before taking the bowl outdoors to
discard the soapy residue. Setting it on the doorstep, he rushes to the
outhouse to complete his morning ritual. Returning to the kitchen, he finds Nur
bent over a smoking bowl of hot porridge with the grandest of smiles.

“Azhar, we have brown
sugar this morning. Our Baba is good to us”

Hafiz sits at the
opposite end of the table, his own porridge barren of anything sweet. There is
only enough for the boys, he feels.The
used plastic bag that sits on the table holds about three tablespoons of
crumbly dark crystals. Azhar sits at his seat, an upended orange crate padded
with a cushion his mother made.

“Eat up boys. Divide
that between you.”

As Nur digs into the
bag, Azhar watches his father stir his breakfast to cool it, knowing such a
treat is rare.

“What about you Baba?”

Nur halts his
sprinkling to look at his father.

“No, no, I don’t want
any. Take it. And hurry, Ismail will be along soon with the truck to take you
to work.”

Suddenly the kettle’s
steam whistle erupts. Hafiz sits closest to the cook stove and twists about
with his single arm to lift the heated pot to fill the three mugs for tea.When his father turns his back, Azhar hastily
reaches into the bag pulling out almost half of what is left. He stretches to
sprinkle the sugar about his father’s bowl. Nur grins and tosses in what is left
on his spoon. The boys are giggling as Hafiz turns around with the first of the
mugs.

He stops in mid swing when
he sees what they have done. He guesses it to be Azhar, so much like his
mother. He holds his youngest son’s gaze for a moment before looking at Nur.
Mistaking the look on their father’s face, thinking him upset, the boys grow
quiet. Hafiz briefly studies his sons, soon off to do men’s work, still
childlike in their hearts. He yearns for them to run free, not to need their
strong backs to survive. He is overcome with this simple gesture of love; a
glistening tear zigzags down his haggard cheek.

“Thank you, my sons.
You are fine men.”

With everyone shy, the
meal passes in solitude. The boys hastily finish so they can get ready for
work. Please feel free to leave a comment. Thanks for visiting.Next week the Scribbler welcomes Elizabeth Housden of the United Kingdom as she talks about Creating Characters and her novel The Gentlemen Go By. She is a published author and former actress.

Thursday, 2 October 2014

Why would a diamond be called a blood diamond? Here’s what Wikipedia
says; Blood diamonds (also called a conflict diamonds, converted
diamonds, hot diamonds, or war diamonds) is a term used for a
diamond mined
in a war zone and sold to finance an insurgency,
an invading army's war efforts, or a warlord's
activity. The term is used to highlight the negative consequences of the
diamond trade in certain areas, or to label an individual diamond as having
come from such an area.

"Diamonds
are a girl’s best friend" Marilyn
Monroe famously sang in the 1953 classic Gentlemen Prefer Blondes. But
are they friends to Canadians too? Diamonds are not everybody’s friend.
Check the video at the end of the blog. made available by the diamond buyers
guide.

In February 2011, a Canadian diamond
named the Ekati Spirit sold at auction for a record $6 million. The
cherry-sized, 78-carat rock’s exceptional clarity, carats and colour surpassed
that of the previous record holder which sold for $1.2 million just a few years
ago. It wasn't disclosed whether the Spirit's buyer was male or female, but
somewhere in the world a girl has a new best friend.

Early in 2011, DeBeers got the green
light to open a new mine located roughly 300 kilometres northeast of
Yellowknife on the shore of Kennady Lake. Estimates say that the $600 million
Gahcho Kue project could start production in 2014. Yet since the kimberlite
(ancient underground magma) that holds the diamonds is actually located under
the lake, the plan is to lower the water level in some spots and completely
drain the lake in others. This overhaul of the natural landscape is fueling
concerns that the diamond business is not as clean-cut as the stones they
produce.

Advantages

Canada’s
diamond industry was launched from a standstill in the late 1990s after the
discovery of one of the gems at Point Lake, NWT. Since then, the industry has
surged and Canada
now produces 15 percent of the world’s diamond supply and is the third largest
producer of diamonds after Botswana and Russia.
Between 1998 and 2002, 13.8 million carats worth $2.8 billion have been mined
in Canada. "This is roughly a 1.5-kilogram bag of ice each day for five
years, with each bag worth 1.5 million," reports Statistics Canada.

Diamond mining has also led to a marked increase in Northern jobs. And these
positions are more than just stints, but long-term posts. Nearly a third of
these jobs are held by aboriginals and average salaries hover around $63,000.
The mining has come to account for almost half of the North West Territory's
GDP, according to Deb Archibald, director of minerals, oil and gas at the NWT
industry ministry.

Disadvantages

However,
both open-pit and underground mines present significant environmental impacts.
Issues such as destruction or loss of habitat, water contamination, excessive
waste (rock, soil etc…) and the possibility of heavy metals or toxins leeching
into the water table are ever-present factors. In the case of the new Gahcho
Rue mine, the displacement of the caribou habitat and migration paths are of
great concern.

In response to these threats, First
Nations groups set up an independent watchdog organization to protect against
environmental damages at the Ekati mine. In 2004, they reported an increase in
chemicals in the surrounding lakes and a total habitat loss of 19.7 square
kilometres, an area double the size of Yellowknife. And the mine was also in
the migratory path of the largest caribou herd in Canada.

The open-pit Victor Mine in the James
Bay Lowlands of Northern Ontario produces some 600,000 carats of diamonds every
year. It also produces 2.5 million tonnes of processed waste rock every year
and pumps 40 Olympic sized pools of salt-water into the Attawapiskat River
every day.

A great deal of
emphasis is placed on the Canadian diamond industry as a welcome alternative to
the blood or conflict diamonds mined in Africa. Canada was one of the main supporters
of the Kimberly process, a certification initiative created in 2000 to help
deter the trade of conflict diamonds.

All diamonds mined and cut in the
Northwest Territories of Canada are laser inscribed with a unique
identification number so that retailers can assure they are conflict-free
stones. Taking another oppositional cue from Africa and the disastrous impacts
their mining programs had on the surrounding ecosystems, all Canadian diamond
mines are overseen by the Canada Mining Regulations for the Northwest
Territories. This program ensures the preservation of surrounding land and
aquatic habitats.

The following
1 minute video is from the African Diamond Council. It warns about blood diamonds and is NOT for the faint hearted.

Due to a time conflict, the 4Q Interview with Kitty LaRoar will only be available next week. You really need to meet this gal and listen to her music. She has a wonderful voice and sings the old classics beautifully. Here's a sample.

Google+ Badge

Subscribe To The Scribbler

Total Pageviews

Now Available

Wall of War

Allan Hudson

About Me

My mother taught me to read, to like books, when I was very young. She also taught me how to write. I grew up in the country, even went to a one-room school which was right across the road from our house. She was the teacher. The days I missed were few.

Writing is so much fun and even though I started later in life, I am so happy to realize my dream. Having this blog so I can share other people's work gives me great pleasure.

I've had many adventures in my life. I've travelled throughout North America, gone skydiving, rock climbing, wilderness camping. I craft stained glass and I enjoy woodworking. I'm blessed with many good friends.

I live in the seaside community of Cocagne, New Brunswick, Canada. My wife's name is Gloria. My son's name is Adam and my stepsons' names are Christopher (Mireille) and Mark (Nathalie) Young. My grandchildren are Matthieu, Natasha and Damien. I love them all.

Thank you for visiting. I hope you enjoy my blog. You can reach me by leaving a comment and/or your email address and I'll respond.

Family and Friends.

Review of Wall of War

Buy it Here

Wall of War is available at Amazon.com, Amazon.ca, Cover to Cover in Riverview, Cocagne Variety in Cocagne and from the author.

The Douglas Kyle Memorial Award for Fiction

My story - The Ship Breakers - received Honorable Mention in the Douglas Kyle Memorial awards for New Brunswick Writers Federation's short story category. Watch for it with the coming selection of short stories to be published in 2018